How the War Made Us a Name
       

Before the war, we had names we inherited from the dead.
They kept us warm until we start to lose those names to the wind.

The long corridors in my throat are of tinted glasses, all that happened
belongs in the darkness of what may wash off the memories of all the dead.

I wake up with scars on my arms, and it surprises me that I still feel dead
after gulping a cup of pap. I feel strange in my father's frock too,

even though it keeps me warm. I need all the heat I can get today,
so the eggs in my body can hatch and be set free to make nests

far from here, where they would not be hunted to deliver obituaries
in envelopes that are large enough to be registers, wherein our names are written

for each condolence visit. The war made us names, too much to keep up with.
We learned to escape the burning before we learn that every name we inherit comes with allergies.

I throw a harp inside the fireplace, and it poured out the tunes I once heard baba played on it.
It stopped when it got swallowed in the flames—all we inherited still burns.

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Copyright © 2022 Hussain Ahmed All rights reserved
from Harp in a Fireplace
Newfound
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission